


Liminal States

by gracefultree



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 06:58:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14827571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracefultree/pseuds/gracefultree
Summary: In which John wakes up in a bathroom, Harold experiences the problematic hospitality of the Russian mob, and then they both climb trees.





	Liminal States

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elbowsinsidethedoor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elbowsinsidethedoor/gifts).



John always hated waking up in bathrooms, ever since the first time when he was fifteen and passed out after too many shots at a party at a senior’s house.He hated waking up in a bathroom with his hands and feet zip-tied even more.At least this time he wasn’t hog-tied in the bathtub, as had happened on three separate occasions.The first two he’d been able to get out of on his own — they hadn’t bothered to search him well enough and he managed to reach his knife or something else sharp enough to cut the bonds, the third time Kara had rescued him — and hadn’t stopped teasing him about it for six months. 

This time he came to hugging the toilet, his arms wrapped around the base and his wrists zip-tied together — count a point to his captors for creativity, though perhaps not intelligence.His ankles were also zip-tied, though fortunately not around the toilet.They hadn’t stripped him or taken his shoes, belt or jacket, though he could tell his pockets were empty.He shook his head to clear it, feeling the absence of his earwig.They probably had his phone, gun and knife, too. 

All in all, not the worst way to find himself captured.It was a sight better than shot and left in the trunk of a burning car, one of the more colorful incidents since he started working for Finch. 

He strained his ears to listen as he flexed his hands and feet to get blood flowing.Through the closed door he could hear movement and men’s voices.The overhead fan kept him from hearing distinct words, but he would bet good money they weren’t speaking English. 

Assessment done, he twisted around so that his hands were concealed from the door by the toilet so he could pop off the cover and start twisting off one of the bolts that held the toilet to the floor.After a few minutes his fingers were bloody from broken blisters, but he had both bolts out.Unfortunately, they didn’t have any edges sharp enough to cut the zip-ties, but it was a good start towards freedom. 

There was a sound at the door, and he quickly replaced the two covers and hid the bolts in his hands behind the toilet, pretending to still be knocked out.A man walked into the room, lifted the toilet lid, and stepped over John, kicking him in the kidneys as he positioned himself.John held in a grunt that might alert the man that he was awake.He heard the lowering of a zipper and the fabric shuffle of a man taking out his dick.He resigned himself to getting peed on.It wouldn’t be the first time. 

“Hey, Gregor, why not use the guy as your toilet?” a voice demanded, thick with a Russian accent. 

“Idiot!” Gregor responded in Russian.“I don’t want to wake him up.”He started urinating into the toilet bowl. 

“But his friend here might talk,” the first man continued in English.“You should see his face thinking about it.”He laughed evilly.“Would you like that, geek?You want us to pee on your friend’s face?” 

John groaned internally, remembering that Finch was in the other room, tied to a chair.This wasn’t his best rescue effort, that’s for sure.He hadn’t realized there were five guys, expecting only the three they’d seen while surveilling the number — Gregor Petrokov, minor drug dealer and gun runner for the Russian mob. 

Gregor finished his business and shook himself off, then tucked his dick away.He flushed, and John did his best to hold the toilet down, just in case.So far, the seal between the toilet and the floor hadn’t broken, but breaking it in order to lift the toilet and free his hands would have been his next step if Gregor hadn’t come in. 

Gregor didn’t wash his hands — or close the door all the way on the way out, leaving John with the ability to hear what was going on through the crack.Finch, it seemed, wasn’t talking.Good for him.While four of the men debated in Russian what to do to make Finch give up the name of his boss, John started shifting the toilet slowly back and forth. 

From the other room there was a slap of flesh on flesh.Finch made a sound of pain.John redoubled his efforts. 

“Come on, tell us who sent you after us!” one of the thugs cajoled.There was the sound of tearing fabric.More slaps.More gasps from Finch.The toilet shifted. 

“Tell us what we want to know!” another voice shouted, and Finch cried out louder.“Tell us!” 

The seal broke, sending toilet water rushing all over the floor, soaking John.He didn’t let it bother him.He’d dealt with far worse in his time, and at least Gregor had flushed.Wedging himself into the corner to use his legs and body and shoulder to maneuver, he attempted to lift the toilet so he could get his hands free. 

Two inches, three.More tearing fabric, more punches, more cries from Finch, getting louder, more pained. 

Five inches, six. 

John got his linked hands under the toilet.With a grunt of effort, he dragged his arms from around it.A muscle pulled in his shoulder, but he ignored it.No time for petty pains. 

Instinct had him wanting to barge in immediately and rescue Finch, but his training made that impossible.He had to get his hands and feet free to move before he used his element of surprise, otherwise it would be a waste and they’d both end up dead.The Russians weren’t going to kill Finch anytime soon from the sounds of it, so he had a few moments to situate himself.Finch would approve, saying that his own personal pain was far less important than saving the number or their innocent victims.He lowered the toilet to the floor again and got to his knees, crawling awkwardly towards the sink and counter where he spotted a black bag. 

The bag contained a shaving kit, minus the beard trimmers but with a safety razor.He had it disassembled in moments and his hands and feet free soon after.The small blade wouldn’t be a good weapon in a fight, but worth it to keep, so he tucked it into a pocket and picked up the lid of the toilet tank.Heavy porcelain, it would be useful as a club. 

He paused, listening.Finch’s breathing was harsh and quick.In pain, then, but not badly enough that he still made noise about it after he’d been hit. 

“There, hit him there,” one of the men said in Russian, and Finch screamed in agony. 

John kicked the door open, sliding into the main hotel room while the Russians gathered their wits.He clonked one man upside the head, knocking him out, then used the lid to block a punch as he dove for the unconscious man’s gun. 

It was over in less than a minute. 

Finch was in a sorry state; his upper half was naked, the suit cut from his body, and John saw a long surgery scar peeking out of his waistband and going two more inches up his side.He also saw what looked like shrapnel scars, and frowned.Where would Finch have picked _those_ up? 

Now was not the time to wonder. 

He untied Finch and offered his jacket to cover up, which Finch accepted with exhausted gratefulness. 

“Why on Earth is your jacket _wet_ , Mr. Reese?” Finch demanded, peeved.“Are you hurt?Is this blood?” 

“Don’t worry about it,” John responded, clearing the hallway and planning their exit route.“There’s more bacteria in the ice machine.”He glanced around the room, gathering his gun and their phones and wallets while Finch fussed with the jacket. 

“Is this from — Oh, dear Lord!” 

John hid his smile by turning away.Finch sure could be a prissy bastard when he wanted to be! 

“Come on, we’ve got to get out of here,” he said, holding out a hand to offer Finch support as he got to his feet, even though he knew Finch would ignore it.Except Finch didn’t.He grabbed John’s arm and hauled himself out of the chair with clenched teeth, clearly in pain.He took two steps and collapsed, his left leg giving out.John jumped to catch him, shoving his shoulder under Finch’s arm. 

“I can’t —“ 

“Can you walk at all, or do you need —?”

Finch struggled to his feet again with John’s help, but he couldn’t put weight on his left side at all. 

“They targeted my hip injury,” Finch admitted as he sat down again with a groan.“It feels like it’s on fire.I would benefit from an x-ray, I think.” 

John dropped to his knees and reached out, examining what he could with his fingers.“It might be dislocated.” 

“I’m afraid that might be the case,” Finch replied.He lowered his head. 

John turned on his feet so his back faced Finch.“Hop on.” 

“Pardon me?” 

“Would you rather I carry you over my shoulder?Or like a princess?We have to get out of here!” 

“Very well,” Finch grumbled with an exasperated sigh.He wrapped his arms around John’s neck and held on as John shimmied him closer so that he could hold onto Finch’s thighs.Finch gasped when he had to spread his legs to accommodate them being wrapped around John’s broad back.He gave a sharper gasp when John got to his feet, jostling him with the motion.“John, I don’t think this is going to work,” he complained. 

John picked up Finch’s handkerchief from the pile of his clothing on the floor and folded it.“Here, bite on this.It’ll make it easier to bear.” 

Finch obediently opened his mouth to accept the cloth.He started biting on it immediately.John shifted a little more to assure himself of Finch’s stability and started moving. 

John took the stairs as quickly as he dared, doing as much as he could to minimize jolts to Finch and his hip, but Finch spent the entire time whimpering into the handkerchief.John suspected that he might also be crying onto his shoulder, but he couldn’t be certain with the soaking shirt he wore. 

He felt his heart soften at hearing his usually stoic boss in so much pain.Finch didn’t deserve this. 

Once in the underground parking garage, he found an old car in a disused corner and set Finch down so he could break in and hotwire it.Finch shut his eyes and leaned against the car’s side, breathing rapidly through his nose.By the time John got the car started and moved to help Finch get in, he’d regulated his breathing and seemed more in control of himself — though his face was still contorted in pain. 

“Tillman ok, or do you want Madani?” John asked. 

.

.

.

Megan Tillman took one look at Finch’s ashen face and gave him a dose of morphine. 

“It’s not dislocated,” she reported later, holding the x-ray film up to the light.“But a hip replacement might…”

“I’ll take that under advisement, Dr. Tillman, thank you,” Finch interrupted, unable to keep the harshness of anger and pain from his voice.“John, let’s go.”Without another word he turned his borrowed wheelchair and started moving towards the exit. 

John and Megan shared a concerned look. 

“Do you make house calls?” John wondered. 

“For you?Just tell me what I need to bring with me,” she answered with a tired smile.She handed him several bottles of medicine.“The instructions are on the label.I suspect his tolerance for these is quite high, but don’t go above the maximum dosage, if you can help it.We don’t want him addicted.Now go take care of your boyfriend,” she said, making a shoeing motion.“He’s going to need you the next few days.” 

John jogged to catch up with Finch, Megan’s words swirling in his head. _Boyfriend_.Is that what she thought they were to each other?They were friends, certainly.No longer just boss/employee or suspicious ex-CIA hitman/eccentric and paranoid billionaire.They cared about each other. 

Though if he looked at the past few hours they’d spent in the hospital objectively, he’d certainly been hovering around Finch in a way that would be consistent with a panicked lover…

There had been a time when John considered coming on to Finch, when he had the idea in his head that they were both lonely and in need of companionship, that their personal sexualities might be flexible enough to incorporate each other as lovers when no one else was available.Everyone needed touch, after all, and while they might not actually have sex, he knew that he would get a great deal of comfort from being physically close to Finch.He knew his touch-starved brain and body had already decided that Finch would be an acceptable solution to the problem. 

Being Finch’s boyfriend, however, was a whole different category.That implied romance.That implied love. 

John hadn’t loved since Jessica.He wasn’t sure if he knew how anymore. 

And Finch… Finch had a fiancee out there in the world waiting for him.He had options.He could simply walk up and ring her doorbell, relegating John to guardian, at best.John would protect her, just as he did Finch.It was the least he could do for his friend for saving his life and giving him a purpose. 

“I have a safehouse where we might recuperate for a few days,” Finch said when John caught up to him.“If you wouldn’t mind staying, that is.I’d rather have a friend with me than a stranger while I’m so immobilized.” 

“You inviting me home, Harold?” John asked in one of his flirty voices.Perhaps Megan was on to something… He certainly flirted with Finch more than enough to be considered interested… And, if he were being honest with himself, something he tried to be as often as possible despite the pain, for honesty was the only was to rout out the weaknesses that could kill him in the field, he wouldn’t mind seeing what Finch’s lips tasted like or what his body felt like curled up in bed together.Hell, he might not mind being his boyfriend in truth.“Are you sure we know each other well enough yet?” he teased.

Finch rolled his eyes and continued wheeling himself towards the car he’d called and the driver who held the door open for them. 

.

.

.

From the outside, the building was an average-looking brownstone on a Brooklyn street filled with other average brownstones.The only difference was the wheelchair ramp built into the side of the building where a small garden or alley might have been, taking him and Finch to the back. 

“You’ll have to pick the lock, I’m afraid,” Finch said with a moue of distaste.“I haven’t carried keys to this particular location in a long time.” 

Inside, the place had been gutted and completely refurbished into an understated opulence perfect for Finch’s persnickety personality.There were books everywhere — many of them first editions, if John had learned anything from spending over a year in Finch’s library, and he spotted a classic record-player in a corner next to a collection of vinyl.The speakers were high-tech and subtly-hidden throughout the main room to create a true surround-sound atmosphere, were one to use the record player.He wondered what else he’d find if he went snooping, for this was the most personal safehouse John had ever seen of Finch’s. 

The building had been redesigned for the comfort of someone in a wheelchair with minimal though extremely comfortable-looking furniture, long, empty halls, and lots of room to turn around.There was even an elevator to get to the second and third floors that John would bet money wasn’t on the blueprints registered with the city.More and more curious. 

“I think it would be best if we both cleaned ourselves up after today’s adventures,” Finch declared, wheeling to the elevator.John followed.“I’m relatively certain I made sure there was clothing in your size here, but I apologize in advance if I’m mistaken.The guest room is on the second floor.” 

“It’ll be fine, Finch,” John responded, frowning to himself about being relegated to the guest room. How could one comment effect him so?Now he was worried he _wanted_ into Finch’s bed and was disappointed that it wasn’t on offer.“You need a hand in the shower?” he added neutrally, pushing the disappointment and regret down as far as he could.Finch mattered more than he did.Finch was the one in pain. 

Harold opened his mouth, probably to instinctively say no, then thought the better of it.“Please,” he mumbled.“I only hope it won’t be too awkward.” 

“I’ve already seen you naked today,” John commented, reminding Finch of how John had wordlessly helped him into scrubs once they were at the hospital and getting him x-rayed.Neither of them had said anything about the incident, and John hadn’t asked about the plethora of scars along Finch’s body — surgical and otherwise.It _did_ give John a healthy appreciation for how mobile Finch was, given the potential for chronic pain and limited range of motion from most of the injuries. 

“Very well.Do your little recognizance routine and meet me in the master suite on the third floor.” 

.

.

.

The shower, a walk-in, was big enough for Finch, the wheelchair, and John, though John took the wheelchair away once Finch was situated on a shower seat.He turned on both shower heads, then gave Finch the handheld one and stepped under the spray to give himself a quick wash before he helped his boss. 

He’d just finished rinsing the soap off his body when Finch dropped the showerhead and made an abortive move to bend over for it.He pulled up with a ragged gasp of pain — he’d need those meds before bed, John decided.He turned to help him, his half-hard dick swinging right in Finch’s face. 

“Sorry, adrenaline hasn’t quite worn off,” he mumbled, moving to cover himself with a hand. 

“I’m well aware of the phenomenon,” Finch muttered in response, casually lifting the washcloth he’d draped over his lap to show John his own semi before dropping it back into place.“It’ll pass, given time.” 

John stared down at him for a moment, frozen into stupefaction by Finch’s action.He shook his head and bent for the showerhead. 

“Of course, there are other things we might do…”He felt Finch’s hand on his thigh.He straightened up.Harold’s hand moved with him, stroking along his ass. 

“I’m sorry, John, I’m feeling rather out of control of myself,” Finch murmured as he kissed John’s hip.John shifted his weight automatically and Finch nuzzled his pubic hair, rubbing his lips and cheek over John’s dick.“What would it be like, I wonder, to give you pleasure?”He raised his free hand, taking John’s dick on his palm to bring it to his mouth.“Would you like that?” 

John closed his eyes and shuddered at the feeling of Finch’s lips moving on the head of his cock as he asked the question.Finch’s tongue flicked out.John squeezed both hands into fists to make the broken blisters from earlier give a spark of pain to distract himself.He stepped away from Finch and moved to stand behind him. 

“Ask me again when you’re sober,” he breathed, allowing himself a single caress down Finch’s back with the tips of his fingers before he got to the task of washing off the accumulated grime of the day’s activities. 

.

.

.

Harold woke with a new excruciating pain in his hip.He gasped, startled, but movement beside him gave him instant peace as he recognized John’s presence and the warmth of his body pressed against Harold’s back.He hadn’t been this close to another human being since Grace, and he knew immediately how difficult it would be to give up when they got out of bed now that he’d touched another. 

“Shh, it’s just pain,” John murmured, his voice lower than usual and, if Harold didn’t miss his guess, sleepy.“It’s just pain,” he repeated.“Better to sleep through the worst of it.”John’s hand caressed Harold’s side, smoothing over the surgery scars through his pajamas.It had the feeling of a gesture John had done before.Maybe he had?Maybe he’d stayed up all night comforting and soothing Harold’s pain?He remembered the dose of narcotics he’d taken after the shower, and must have dozed off relatively quickly afterwards.He certainly didn’t remember getting into bed with John. 

Harold closed his eyes and relaxed into John’s arms, allowing himself a moment basking in John’s warmth before accessing his memories from the day before to tell him what had happened to bring him to wake in bed with John Reese. 

Russians.Pain; horrible, biting, burning, stabbing pain.Punches, one, two, three in quick succession, so hard he couldn’t do more than scream.John’s rescue.Morphine at the hands of the capable Dr. Tillman.An x-ray, a recommendation for a hip replacement he didn’t want and more importantly, didn’t deserve.Bringing John here — to his own home, the one he’d used before moving in with Grace, the one he’d had redesigned for wheelchair accessibility when he moved out, _just in case_. 

Later, in the aftermath of the ferry bombing, he’d been thankful to his ever-present paranoia for making the alterations. 

He remembered sitting in the shower, made bold and reckless by medication, touching John’s thigh.He remembered the words that slipped from his mouth and John’s shiver as he kissed the tip of his cock — with a hint of tongue.He remembered John’s response. 

_Ask me again when you’re sober_. 

Images seemed to explode in his mind as bright lights amid the blur of his memories.John’s voice.His half-smile.His concern as he charged through a crowded train station to bring him home. 

If he looked at the evidence one way, it told a particular story — devotion.Love. 

Was he looking too hard for what he wanted to see? 

No matter what he said next, it would change their relationship forever — and he knew it was he, himself, who had to make the next move.John would wait forever for permission, would put his own needs on hold in favor of Harold’s, no matter how vital to his survival they might be. 

John’s low murmur and soothing touch continued, lulling him into that liminal state between waking and sleeping where lucid dreaming lived.Harold felt his mind expanding out into that altered consciousness, feeling the same way as he did the night he first dreamed of the Machine’s code — all at once and forever expanding. 

Possibilities bloomed before his closed eyes, growing quickly, becoming saplings and trees — each with its own branches and twigs and leaves.Each option broadened the possibilities between them, creating a forest of alternatives as far as his eye could see, each decision with its own trials and tribulations, joys and heartaches. 

He saw them all spread out before him, and he, walking on air, could see the twists and turns of chance and choice. 

He’d been denying and repressing his desire for John for months.Now that it was out in the open, could he put it back? _Should_ he?Would it do him a disservice?John? 

Was he even able to put it away and hide behind the drugs and pretend it wasn’t real? 

Entire sections of forest died as he admitted that he could _not_ put his attraction to John back behind the curtain. 

What, then, to do? 

He climbed a tree.He followed the paths of the branches until he found a comfortable place to sit and rest, observing the nature around him. 

There were birds in the forest.Hundreds, thousands of them.Sparrows and swallows and robins and wrens.He saw a brown finch standing beside his newly-built nest, puffing out his chest and singing with exuberant joy to attract a mate. _Here I am!Pick me!_

Would that he could be so bold. 

He thought of John and all the many paths he’d walked before this moment: The loves and losses and lies.The betrayals and beatings and beauties.The small joys of a Mexican morning and the taste of tequila and limes on his tongue.The small heartbreaks of a Middle Eastern night with explosions and bullets and dead comrades.He thought of all the paths open before John and wondered which he might choose.John had more options than he, being younger and able-bodied and having an intrinsic imperative to stay alive that he doubted he possessed. 

(Though, if he were being honest with himself, which he hated doing when emotions were involved, it was actually the opposite: John had been suicidal and ready to let death claim him while he, Harold, had fought tooth and nail to live past the grief and disability that could have claimed his life as easily as they’d drawn the sheet over Nathan’s body.) 

John would only choose a path that included him, and they both knew it. 

Another third of the forest withered and died, the brown leaves falling with a gentle susurration that reminded him of John’s ministrations. 

Pain sparked again in his body, distracting him from the choices at hand. 

John’s hand moved from his hip down his thigh, then respectfully avoided his genitals as he cupped Harold’s stomach and the middle-aged sprawl he’d been unable to prevent since the accident took away his ability to run.His hand quickly warmed Harold through the layer of his pajamas, bringing more comfort and ease.John let out a deep breath, a plea without words.Was he begging Harold to get better, or was it something else? 

If he and John were to become lovers…

He climbed a different tree and began following the branches. 

Would John insist upon him getting the hip replacement surgery?Would John institute a physical therapy routine for him that went beyond the occasional admonishments to move and exercise?Would he encourage Harold to have the dreaded spinal surgery he’d been putting off? 

It was times like these when Harold wished he were still training the Machine so its curiosity would spark in him decisions he might not have made otherwise.It asked to learn chess and he taught it about the purity of every human life.It asked about his father and he took its memories.It asked about death and he hobbled it, even as it told him it understood his need to do so and that it forgave him. 

What would it ask now? _Why don’t you accept what he’s offering?_

He had so many regrets.He’d made so many mistakes over his life.Would missing out on a potential relationship with John that went beyond the already developed friendship become another? 

He used his pain to atone for his mistakes and regrets. 

But did he _have_ to? 

The work he and John did was atonement in and of itself.He took on Nathan’s mission to save the numbers because of the guilt of not listening to his friend and helping him when he could have.John joined the crusade and made it his own, and was even more devoted to helping the numbers than Harold, sometimes.He was at times more compassionate and also more cynical that Harold… a strange mix from a man who until very recently killed for a living. 

How much more could they do for the numbers if Harold weren’t constantly struggling against the pain that dulled his mind, distracted his attention and distorted his thinking? 

He sighed, watching certain trees light up as he considered possibilities. 

The brown finch landed on his shoulder and began singing again. 

_Here I am.Pick me.Pick me._

Harold opened his eyes. 

“Do you think I’ve slept long enough to be considered sober, Mr. Reese?” Harold wondered softly, shifting so that he could cover the back of John’s hand with his own.Behind him, John sucked in a breath, startled.Harold rubbed John’s skin with his thumb.“I only ask, you see, because as you may have intuited from my drugged babbling yesterday, there are occasions when I have certain, impure, shall we say, thoughts about you.” 

Behind him, John chuckled and shuffled even closer so that his large body pressed firmly all along the length of Harold’s broken frame.“If you’re going to have those kinds of thoughts about me… _Harold_ …I’d hope they were impure,” he responded in the low melodic purr that felt to Harold like flirting and manipulation and fact, all rolled into one. 

Harold closed his eyes against the pain of feeling manipulated — it was John’s way and not something he did consciously.He’d have to get even more used to it than he already was. 

“This was my home before I lived with Grace,” he said instead of broaching other topics so immediately.“I had it refitted for the chance eventuality that I might need the support of an accessible location at some point, but I never truly expected to use it.I returned after the ferry bombing for the brief time I allowed myself convalescence before I began working the numbers in earnest.I turned it into a safehouse and haven’t been back since.” 

“And yet there are clothes in my size in the closet next to yours.You have that Costa Rican coffee in the cabinet that I know you don’t drink but I love.There are three of those scentless organic scrubs you’ve been giving me the past month in the bathroom.This isn’t just a safehouse.” 

Harold closed his eyes.“No, I suppose it isn’t, at that.” 

“I told you yesterday to ask me again,” John murmured, breathing hotly on Harold’s ear.“Is this your way of asking?By sharing the history of this place?” 

“If we were to become lovers, what would you need?” Harold countered, refusing to answer the question so soon.“What would you want?” 

John cleared his throat before answering, but he spoke as if he’d had the answers ready.“More assets so you don’t have to go in the field as often.Self-defense training.I know you won’t use a gun…” 

He trailed off.Harold waited. 

“I’d want you to consider the hip replacement.And the neck surgery.Doing them isn’t a requirement, but I want you to _think_ about them.” 

“And what about for _you_?” 

John paused, and Harold had a vision of John testing his own paths in his head, climbing his own trees, trying to figure out what was safe to ask for verses what he _needed_. 

“I want to sit at your feet,” John said after a long moment.“And for you to tell me when I do ok.” 

Harold rolled to his back, John moving to accommodate the movement without either of them needing to think about it, their bodies were so attuned already.Harold couldn’t turn his head, but John seemed to intuit that and raised himself on his elbow to be able to look down at him and see his eyes.Harold touched his cheek. 

“You have exceeded every expectation I have ever set for you,” he answered honestly.“You are far better than just ok!” 

John’s eyelids fluttered closed. 

“What about you?” John asked after a moment. 

“I need to keep certain levels of privacy and secrets, though there would be fewer between us,” Harold began.John nodded in acknowledgment, his eyes open again and sparkling.“I would like to sleep beside you.I’d like to take you to Italy and dress you in pretty things.”John chuckled.“I’d like to allow myself to fall in love with you.” 

John’s eyes flashed.“That’s a dangerous proposition.” 

“Everything about our lives is dangerous, John.I think I’m finally ready to add some comfort back into mine.” 

“Comfort?What about any of this is comfortable?” 

Harold wiggled free of John’s embrace and pulled himself up so he could sit, ignoring the jolts of pain in his hip, back and shoulder.He repositioned the pillows to lean against.John got up, but knelt on his knees at Harold’s side, sitting on his heels.He placed his hands on his thighs, sitting straight, the samurai at rest.All he needed was the sword at his side.Harold briefly pictured him in kimono with Japanese weapons.Would John agree to such a role-play? 

No, he couldn’t let himself be distracted! 

Harold pictured the forest of decisions again, following his potential answers up one tree, then another.The branches shook beneath his feet. 

“I slept with an employee once,” Harold said.“I was young,” he continued, watching as John’s eyes widened slightly then took on an expression of deep concentration.“So young, in fact, that most of my assets were still tied to IFT and I had to borrow from the company when she grew tired of me and filed a harassment suit.Nathan wrote the settlement check without chastising or criticizing me, and we never spoke of it again.”He paused.“So you see why I may not have mentioned my attraction to you these past six months.” 

“We don’t have the traditional employer/employee relationship,” John pointed out, almost word-for-word from the dialogue in Harold’s head.“I can’t sue you, and we both know we’re going to die long before whatever this is stagnates.” 

“ _Do_ we know that?” Harold asked, intrigued that John hadn’t followed any of the branches he’d expected after the first line.( _Only six months?_ or _You should have said something, Finch_ or _What about me do you find attractive?_ )

John shrugged.“I’m not picky about who I’ll have sex with.Who I’ll sleep next to, on the other hand — that’s a very select few.“He slithered to a prone position so he could make his point from below Harold, pulling a pillow under his head and crossing his arms under it.Harold watched as his legs unfolded, making his undershirt ride up, revealing a small trail of hair Harold itched to touch. 

“I’ll tell you right now, Harold.If you let me in your bed, you’re never going to be rid of me.” 

“Take off your clothes,” Harold ordered, and John did so, returning to bed and taking his former relaxed pose, showing off.Harold let himself explore, first with his eyes, then his fingers.“If I let you into my bed, will you continue being impertinent?Will you continue to bait our detectives?Will you continue to disregard my orders and cut off contact as you’ve been known to do when you disagree with me?” 

“I know the difference between orders in the field and bedroom games,” John growled, suddenly tense.“I’ll do what needs to be done to protect the numbers, no matter what you say or do.” 

Harold raised an eyebrow, testing him with his expression.John fumed. 

“If you think this will change our work —“

“Perhaps it will make you less reckless, knowing you have my bed to return to,” Harold interrupted.“Knowing that it makes me worry when you get hurt or downplay your injuries.” 

John stared at him, seemingly transfixed.“You _want_ me in your bed,” he mused.“You actually _want_ me there.” 

Harold found himself in a tree he hadn’t climbed before, with new possibilities he hadn’t considered.He thought of the awe in John’s voice at realizing that Harold actually wanted him.The finch on his shoulder burst into triumphant song. _Me!Me!You’ve picked me!_

“ _In vino veritas,_ isn’t that the saying?” 

“Do you even know how to have sex with a man?” John blurted, completely out of his usual character.Harold felt his lips turning up at the corners that he could effect John so deeply so quickly. 

“Does it matter?” 

John rolled his eyes and relaxed, his body displaying an ease that hadn’t been there before when Harold touched him.“Now you’re just trying to provoke me by being deliberately mysterious.” 

Harold shifted with a grunt of pain so that he lay on his back again.“You’re already in my bed, Mr. Reese.Please come here and do something about it.” 

John rolled over and kissed him firmly on the mouth. 

Harold let out a small breath, damp with need.“You’re very good at that,” he murmured, tracing John’s ear with delicate fingers, knowing how John would need more praise and acknowledgement than he’d suspected, just from the way he hadn’t thought Harold actually wanted him. 

John simply grinned in response and continued kissing him. 

Outside the window, a brown finch launched itself into the air, calling out its happiness as it joined a mate in flight. 

 


End file.
